"... have disregarded our warning," the voice said, insistently. "In accordance with the Interstellar Code, we can not now be further responsible...." It croaked into silence as Murph slammed the switch closed again. "Nuts!" he said, buckling a belt around his waist. "Yeah," said Jamison. "The hell with them--whoever they are." "Well," said Forsyth--he was the navigator, "now, I'm not so sure...." "Get dressed," Murph was in command, and he showed it. "We are going out." ... There was an oddity about the voice, Murph thought, as he dressed. The voice reminded him of his sweetheart, Sitra, back in Philly on earth: husky, throaty--and with the soft, vibrant purr of a happy kitten. ... It reminded Forsyth of his son's tones, during the family farewell for this expedition. A twinge of concern tautened his body as he remembered: one never knew when--or if--crews returned from these grim expansion campaigns of humanity. ... Jamison had another impression. He remembered his days as a professional fighter and that last, rough brawl when he hadn't _quite_ made champion. It still rankled. The voice was that of his opponent, in the seventh round--just when Jamison's knees started to buckle. The sly, calculated insults in the clinches, intended to make him lose his head. They had accomplished their purpose. He had charged in slugging, when he should have hung on--or run backward until his wind returned. From then on he became a has-been, working steadily downward, until the manpower needs of humanity had offered an opportunity to pick another career. His scarred lips, remembering, were a tight line and his eyes cold and uncompromising. * * * * * They'd finished dressing. Murph flipped on the radio again, grinning in contempt. The voice still vibrated through the ether. "... that you blast off immediately or assume responsibility for the consequences. Interstellar Code states that invaded peoples are justified in using any tactics...." It clicked off. Murph had been annoyed by the resemblance to Sitra's voice: perhaps he was homesick. Jamison's lips vanished into a white line and Forsyth looked around, rabbit-eyed with astonishment, expecting to see his son emerge from the piles of supplies and equipment. Self-conscious, none of them said anything. "Okay," said Murph, "Out we go." The precision door swung open quietly and the three descended to the still-smoking ground. Each set up his rapid fire electro-gun, covering the entrance and then they sat back, waiting. Nothing happened, and Murph broke the tense silence. "Turn on the radio," he looked at Forsyth. "We can hear it from here. I'll man both guns."